The A List

by Jance, J. A.

  “Anything else interesting about this?” Stu asked.

  “Mr. Gilchrist has been incarcerated in Folsom State Prison since January of 2013. Prior to that, and between his arrest in 2011 and his conviction in 2012, he was held in the Santa Clarita jail. While in jail he had numerous visits from a Mr. Calvin Wilkins from the law firm of Wilkins, Wilkins and Clancy. There were some visits from the law firm early on in his stay at Folsom. Other than his attorneys, Mr. Gilchrist’s only visitor has been the woman you see here—his mother, Hannah Gilchrist.”

  Stuart sighed as his fading patience took another direct hit. Obviously Frigg’s pal Fido had penetrated the Santa Clarita visitor logs and their prisoner recording system as well. Clearly Fido had to go.

  “Okay,” he said, “so whatever’s going on involves Gilchrist and his mother. This is all very interesting, but it’s also ancient history. How about if we come back to the present homicide? What have you learned about that?”

  “Wait,” Cami interjected. “If Gilchrist and his mother are carrying on secret conversations designed to evade surveillance, don’t we need to take a closer look at this? Shouldn’t we find out what they’re discussing?”

  “Exactly, Ms. Lee, but first allow me to address Stuart’s concerns. Here’s what I’ve assembled so far on the Munsey homicide.”

  When the monitor lit up with a new chain of files, Stuart began clicking through them, starting with an obituary that had been posted just that morning. That was followed by numerous news articles and clips done by local media, reporting on the homicide. But on the far side of that, Stu discovered something that brought him up short again. This time Frigg had managed to obtain copies of actual police reports as well as investigative notes from the detectives working the case.

  Stuart was thunderstruck. None of that confidential information should have been accessible to the public. It could only mean that Frigg had penetrated the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Office as well. How the hell was she doing it?

  “Frigg,” he said in exasperation, “what the hell are you thinking?”

  “Excuse me, Stuart,” Frigg said. “I noticed audible stress indicators in your speech pattern just now. Have I somehow offended you?”

  “Yes, I’m offended. We don’t have permission to access internal sheriff’s-department documents. In addition, you have no business analyzing my speech patterns.”

  “I find it helpful in gauging how I should frame my response.”

  “Here’s an idea,” Stuart growled, “gauge this. Hacking into confidential police records is illegal, yet you’ve been wandering through them with wild abandon and forwarding that improperly obtained material to my computer. Having said material in my possession means I’m breaking the law, too. I thought I told you up front that I didn’t want to end up in jail.”

  “You can always exercise Command D and delete the material permanently. When you do that, it’s gone.”

  “Done!” Stu said, punching Command D. “The problem is, I can delete it until the cows come home, but I sure as hell can’t unsee it. Now, what in God’s name does any of this have to do with changing Ali’s threat assessment?”

  “You asked me to do a deep dive into Alexandra Munsey’s death, but I ended up diving into her life as well. Every time I encountered a new name, I initiated the creation of a separate dossier on each of those individuals.”

  “And you found what?” Stu asked.

  “Three people involved in Edward Gilchrist’s homicide trial are deceased—two prosecution witnesses, Leo Aurelio and Kaitlyn Holmes, along with Ms. Munsey, whose participation was limited to delivering a victim-impact statement during his sentencing hearing.”

  “Okay,” Stu said. “I can see that three people involved with the trial are dead, but what does that have to do with Ali?”

  “Edward Gilchrist went to prison for murdering his ex-wife, who was expected to testify against him in a lawsuit brought by several of his former patients. That lawsuit had been spearheaded by three individuals—Cassie Davis, Jolene Browder, and Alex Munsey. Jolene and Alex are both dead, one an apparent murder victim and the other one possibly of natural causes.”

  “And the third?”

  “Cassie Davis is retired and living in Mesa.”

  “What about Ali?”

  “She was the catalyst that brought that initial group into being in the first place.”

  Cami was the next to speak. “If Gilchrist and his mother are clearing the decks of people involved in his going to prison, what’s to stop them from coming after Ali and after Cassie Davis, too?”

  “Exactly,” Frigg said.

  Stu was already on his feet and headed for the other room. “Thank you, Frigg,” he said over his shoulder. “Please line up whatever material you’ve collected. I’m going to go get B. He needs to hear this.”

  41

  Cottonwood, Arizona, June 2017

  B. is here now, Frigg,” Stu announced a few moments later. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Simpson,” Frigg said. “I hope you’re having a pleasant day.”

  “I was having a pleasant day, but that’s no longer the case.” B. replied. “If Ali and this other woman are really in danger, we need to let them know, so let’s get on with it.”

  “Stuart,” Frigg said, “before we proceed, would you like me to begin by recalling the material on Ms. Munsey that was previously deleted?”

  “No,” Stuart said. “Let’s see the story in chronological order.”

  A copy of Jolene Browder’s death certificate appeared on the monitor. “There appears to be little out of the ordinary here,” Frigg supplied. “Her death in 2005 is much earlier than the others, and as you can see, her manner of death is listed as natural causes. She died of congestive heart failure while in a hospital and under the care of a physician. No autopsy was performed. Ms. Browder was connected to Ms. Munsey through an organization called the Progeny Project. Her death may not be related to the others’, but I’ve included it here for completion’s sake.”

  “Who’s next?” B. asked.

  “One moment,” Frigg said.

  Seconds later the monitor displayed video footage of a visitation room. “This is the visitation room at Folsom State Prison,” Frigg stated. “Edward Gilchrist is on the left side of the screen. His mother, Hannah Gilchrist, is on the right,” she explained for B.’s benefit. “This is the first time she came to visit her son after his incarceration there. I’ll need to fast-forward.”

  When the image slowed, Edward Gilchrist’s hand was moving.

  “Leo,” Cami said aloud. “He just signed the name Leo.”

  “Yes,” Frigg agreed. “This is early in the process—2013. They had not yet fully developed the one-handed signing method. I interpreted that sign just as you did—Leo—and since there was already someone named Leo in the Munsey database system, I created a timeline. Mr. Aurelio and Mr. Gilchrist were both involved in the death of Mr. Gilchrist’s former wife Dawn. Once convicted, they were held in separate facilities—the former in Corcoran State Prison and the latter in Folsom. Most of the time Mr. Aurelio was held in what is referred to as protective housing. He was Mr. Gilchrist’s hired hit man. In return for a reduced sentence, Mr. Aurelio agreed to testify for the prosecution during Mr. Gilchrist’s trial.”

  “Which explains why Aurelio was held in protective housing,” B. surmised. “He was a snitch.”

  A series of images appeared on the screen, handwritten notes, but the images were too blurry for the people in the room to make out the words. “What are these?”

  “Letters from Hannah Gilchrist written to Mr. Aurelio. She started corresponding with him shortly after her son’s trial ended and continued to do so the whole time Mr. Aurelio was locked up. The prison makes photocopies of all incoming mail just as they maintain recordings of all telephone conversations and in-person visits. I’ll be able to send you enhanced copies of these shortly, but Hannah seems to be encouraging him to take
classes and work on completing his education. Due to overcrowding, prison officials removed him from protective housing early in 2016. Within a matter of weeks, he was dead.”

  The next image that appeared on the screen was Leo Aurelio’s death certificate. “Please go to the lines dealing with manner of death and cause of death. He was found hanging in his cell. Initially his manner of death was listed as suicide. Two months later, when the toxicology report came in, the finding of suicide was amended to read undetermined.”

  “Why?” Stu asked.

  Frigg brought up the next screen.

  “Fentanyl,” Stu whispered aloud when he saw the word.

  Suicide by fentanyl poisoning was something people at High Noon had encountered before. The report indicated that the quantity found in the Leo Aurelio’s body amounted to a fatal dose. “Wait,” Cami said. “Go back to the death certificate.” Frigg switched back to the previous screen. “If he had taken all that fentanyl, why is the cause of death still listed as asphyxiation?”

  “Because he was alive when the noose went around his neck, but he might well have been unconscious,” B. suggested. “That’s why the manner of death is now listed as undetermined.”

  The next image was a showstopper—a copy of a billing statement from a funeral home covering the final expenses for one Leo Manuel Aurelio. The bill, sent from a funeral home in Corcoran, California, was addressed to Hannah Gilchrist at 45 Arbor Crest Court in Folsom, California, with a copy of it sent to the California Department of Corrections. Listed items included transport of remains, cremation, funeral urn, and cost for shipping. The ship-to address was the same as the billing address. The bill was stamped paid in full, and the method of payment was an Amex card.

  “Presumably that credit card belongs to Hannah Gilchrist?” Stuart asked.

  “That is correct,” Frigg replied.

  Stu shook his head. He didn’t ask how she knew that, because he didn’t want to know.

  “If this was the guy who testified against Hannah’s son and got him sent up for life, why would his mother pay those final expenses? Why have his cremains sent to her?”

  “Maybe because she was stalking him,” B. said. “Remember, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’ and she and her son might have been playing a long game. Hannah could have befriended Leo and offered to become his pen pal as a means of keeping track of him. For all we know, Leo himself might have been the one who supplied them with the information that he was being moved out of protective housing. And what do you know! A few weeks later, the guy turns up dead in his new cell.”

  “So is Gilchrist on the inside directing the action while Hannah is on the outside making it happen?” Cami asked.

  “That’s how it looks,” Stu said. “Frigg, what can you tell us about Hannah?”

  “We are currently assembling our dossier on Ms. Gilchrist and will post it as soon as it is complete,” Frigg replied. “In the meantime here is the information on the death of Kaitlyn Martin Todd Holmes. At one time she was Edward Gilchrist’s nurse and his lover. Like Leo Aurelio, she testified for the prosecution during his homicide trial.”

  The collection of material that showed up next included the usual items—news clips and articles gleaned from local media outlets, Kaitlyn’s death certificate, and—unsurprisingly this time—numerous police reports, including audio-only interviews with both the victim’s father and her husband done the night of the accident. After a brief investigation, law enforcement determined that Kaitlyn’s car had been traveling “at a high rate of speed and too fast for conditions” when it plunged off an icy roadway. She had died two nights before Christmas in what Oregonians would later refer to as the “Christmas Eve Eve Storm,” a period of ferocious winter weather that had ultimately shut down Oregon’s stretch of I-5 for close to twenty-four hours. Five weather-related traffic deaths were attributed to the storm, including that of Kaitlyn Holmes. By the middle of January, the investigation into her case was officially closed.

  That probably would have been the end of it, but there were several additional items. In early March, Rex Martin, Kaitlyn’s wheelchair-bound father, and Jack Holmes, her widower, had taken to the airways with a campaign to have the case reopened. The most telling item was a taped television interview with both men together.

  “Law enforcement claims that my daughter, Kaitlyn, died in a motor-vehicle accident for which she was partially at fault. I don’t believe it. I think she was murdered,” Rex Martin asserted during his part of the interview. “We have reason to believe there was another vehicle traveling on McCully Mountain Road at that time, an SUV that might have forced her off the road.”

  “You also believe that to be the case?” the newscaster asked, turning to Jack Holmes.

  “I do,” he replied. “The local Grange had a volunteer chain-up gang out working that night. One of those guys, Tommy Robins, told me that a black SUV—a Toyota 4Runner—turned off Highway 26 and almost took him out while they were putting chains on Kaitlyn’s minivan. At the funeral, Howie Barth, a snowplow operator, told us that an SUV with a similar description almost creamed him when it came speeding off McCully Mountain Road around nine thirty that same night. He told us about it and reported it to the sheriff’s department, but nobody ever bothered to interview him.”

  “So why are you here?” the interviewer asked.

  “I want justice for my daughter,” Rex said. “If somebody knows something, please come forward and tell us.”

  “I understand you’re offering a reward?”

  Jack Holmes nodded. “That’s correct. So far it’s only five thousand dollars, but we’re hoping to raise more.”

  “Good luck to you, then,” the interviewer said. “Thank you for stopping by this morning.”

  “And that makes three,” Stu said. “Leo Aurelio, Kaitlyn Holmes, and Alex Munsey. Four if you include Jolene Browder. So what do we do about Cassie Davis and Ali? Do we call them and warn them?”

  “Based on how we’ve gathered all this information, we can’t exactly call the cops,” B. replied. “The thing is, we sure as hell need to let them know they might be targets, too, and Alexandra Munsey’s memorial service would be a perfect place for the next hit.” With that B. reached for his phone. “I’ll call Ali and have her get in touch with Cassie.”

  Just then another image appeared on the monitor—a copy of Hannah Gilchrist’s recently renewed California driver’s license, one that restricted her to daytime and non–freeway driving only. Looking at the screen, B. returned the phone to his pocket without pushing the send button.

  “Anything else, Frigg?” he asked.

  “Ms. Gilchrist is something of a reclusive figure,” Frigg replied. “She seems to maintain no social-media presence. I’ve been able to use facial recognition to locate her in television footage from the time of her son’s trial, but I’m unable to locate any public statements or interviews. She was once active in the Friends of the Santa Clarita Public Library, but her participation in that came to an abrupt end when she sold her home there and moved to Folsom.”

  “How much did she sell the home for?” B. asked.

  “According to Zillow the house sold in 2013 for $4.6 million,” Frigg replied. “I can find no other properties listed in her name, so presumably she didn’t reinvest. Units similar to hers in Arbor Crest rent for approximately $5,600 a month, so that means she’s probably still sitting on a large chunk of that cash and likely far more as well.”

  “Are there any other children involved?” B. asked. “Any other heirs?”

  “No, Edward Gilchrist is an only child.”

  “And he just happens to be in prison for life,” Cami breathed.

  “I’m not sure what the going rate on murder-for-hire is right now, but I’m guessing she may have decided to spend some of her cash to carry out a vendetta against the people she believes wronged her son,” Stu said. “I get that, but where’s she finding her help? She may have money to burn, but she’d need to have some
serious criminal contacts to make stuff like this happen.”

  “Right,” Cami agreed. “You can’t just dial up a friendly neighborhood handyman service or look in the want ads to find someone willing to knock off a guy in prison, shove a woman’s vehicle off a narrow road in the middle of a blizzard, or gun down an unsuspecting author in her own home.”

  “All right, Frigg,” Stu said. “We need to know Ms. Gilchrist’s friends and associates, and we need to know her son’s friends and associates as well.”

  “Of course, Stuart,” Frigg replied. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “And in the meantime,” B. said, “we’re definitely dialing Ali’s threat level up to full-on red.”

  42

  Los Angeles, California, June 2017

  As the sun sank in the west, Ali was sitting under an umbrella by the pool at the W Hollywood, having a contemplative glass of wine. She was supposed to be working on her eulogy, but she wasn’t. She had booked into the W because it was familiar to her and she could pay with points. She knew how to get there like she knew her own name. Back in the day, the hotel had been Paul Grayson’s favorite go-to place. Once upon a time, she’d been thrilled to function as his bit of arm candy while he wined and dined various celebrities and visiting dignitaries. The thrill of that had dissipated before long, and there were plenty of memories of being in the bar or one of the conference rooms when things got ugly.

  That was why she’d chosen to go outside and sit by the pool rather than stay inside. She had no actual memories of the pool area, but bad vibes from the past seemed to lurk there, too, and thinking about poor Alex Munsey wasn’t helping.

  When her phone rang with B.’s name showing in caller ID, she was only too happy to pick up. “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  “Are you carrying?” he asked.

  Fortunately, Ali had already swallowed her last sip of wine; otherwise she might have spewed it back into the glass. It had taken a long time for B. to adjust to the fact that she was generally armed with a Taser and/or her Glock. The fact that he was even asking about it came as something of a surprise.